


frost forms in the hollow of your hand

by wanderNavi



Series: wanderNavi Sampler [3]
Category: Fire Emblem: Kakusei | Fire Emblem: Awakening
Genre: F/M, M/M, [aggressive shrugging], ghosts and dream hauntings, robin doesn't come back
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-21
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2020-07-10 05:51:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19900873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderNavi/pseuds/wanderNavi
Summary: It was nightmarish to consider loving Robin alone, in the singularity of his presence.





	frost forms in the hollow of your hand

**Author's Note:**

> This is gratuitous in a way that might be slightly unhealthy, all considering.  
> Title from Amarante’s “[In the Hollow of Your Hand](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=E4qz2O9CWq4)”

“It’s easier to communicate through dreams. I can be as cryptic as I want, and you won’t remember most of this when you wake up and definitely not in a few days,” Robin explained. Chrom watched the lights and shadows fold and unfurl around him in smoky lines and blooming buds. They sat in a nondescript room of unmeasurable proportions, gigantic and larger than the great halls and intimate and smaller than bedrooms with the doors closed.

“But let’s be more straightforward this time. How’s Morgan?”

Morgan and Inigo were taking the Feroxian theatres by storm, both types, combative and artistic. Apparently, based on the reviews and feedback trickling through the mouths of the relevant aficionados, Morgan displayed an unexpected aptitude for set design and special effects. For blending reality and fantasy, for illusions and truths. Her aptitude in the arena came as expected.

“Oh. Well good for her,” said Robin in something that might have been surprise through the haze of fog blending away the edges of his form like ink dropping into clear water, a mutual irreversible change of fate.

_When are you –_

* * *

It was easy to love Sumia, their daughters, as well as Robin. It was nightmarish to consider loving Robin alone, in the singularity of his presence. He pulled attention towards himself, with the unavoidable intensity of the sun over a desert, and controlled conversations with the precision of a fencer. Chrom came across Robin at ease while talking to priests, infantrymen, nobles, traders, generals, handling all parties equally and unruffled from topic to topic.

Chrom entered the mess hall once, dinner at full swing with a wondrously thick stew whipped together by whoever was on cooking duty that day, a miracle work of freshly caught game and bits foraged from the woods and the convoy. The tables were a full cacophony of cheering and singing, wooden bowls banging and feet stamping. He had to shout to hear his own words, just trying to speak to Sully besides him. Over everyone’s heads, over the spear Stahl was shaking while unaware of Frederick marching over with a furious scowl, in the far corner, Robin was talking to Ricken, hands sketching a scene, and his eyes snapped up to Chrom. Robin smiled, the noise fell away from Chrom’s attention, and Robin looked back down into his ongoing conversation, nothing momentous to review here.

Sully followed the direction of Chrom’s attention and shook her head. “I can’t decide which of you are more oblivious.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he lied.

But nothing seemed to work its ways past the walls of Robin’s professionalism in all his relations. He smiled patiently at Olivia with the assessing eye of a teacher, he settled Ricken’s enthusiasm with a quiet word, he bolstered Donnel with a nudge of the shoulders. He watched everyone with admiration, hungrily drinking in their histories and personalities, with a bleeding loyalty that blinded him from any turn to the sweeter taste of rosewater infused romantic affections.

Chrom found himself stumbling into the steady weight of Robin’s hands and how torch light danced on his white hair and in his dark brown eyes. Robin would only have to say the word and Chrom would eagerly partition his seal, his throne, his heart and entrust them to Robin’s eternal loyalty. With Sumia, Chrom buried himself in the warm hold of her soft handling and her determination that flared with the sparks of flint striking. With her, Chrom shared his sword and shield, the protective magic cradling over Ylisse, their kingdom that would pass onto their children and their children’s children. With her, Chrom found the velvet tapestries of dreams for the future, woven on garden paths and in intimate dinners and on horse rides and pegasus flights. But Chrom needn’t share his sword with Robin. Not with Robin, who already prowled a protective patrol over their present, teeth bared and ready to slay dragons to protect hearth and home. He would only have to say the word, but Robin never did.

Their relationship was a ledger of debts and liabilities Robin tallied and kept locked in a safe Chrom couldn’t crack, away from his attempts to wipe the books clean. Don’t think of it this way, Chrom tried to tell him, of obligations and repayment.

With all due respect, it’s my business, Robin retorted.

* * *

“I died for you,” Robin said and Chrom almost screamed right back at him, _Well, I didn’t ask you to!_

But he didn’t because what would be the point? Robin _was_ dead and these were dreams and nothing Chrom said here could bring his dead best friend back to life.

Not even, “I loved you,” Chrom said in the wavering air. The sound came back loud through his skull, came back muffled through his ears. “I loved you,” Chrom said again, with more confusion this time than last, the thought had never dropped down, fully formed, vocalized, before and now that it was in his hands, he didn’t know what to do with –

It sounded like something unbelievable, it _was_ unbelievable, he hadn’t seen it before and even now, the words sounded more like the single-toned spool of sounds of Miriel in the lecture hall. He hadn’t seen it while Robin was at his side, he hadn’t seen it while they marched through foreign fields under Naga’s blessing, he hadn’t seen it while Ylisse was in uneasy peace, he hadn’t seen it while Robin’s mouth curled into a patient smile, already fading out too, _may we meet again_.

What use was it, to realize this truth now?

Robin groaned, frustrated, “What does that even have – Alright, it does have something to do with our situation. It…”

He rubbed a hand over his eyes, into his hair, the way he did when the wicks were nearly done, and the oil was nearly all burnt away, late into the night but the strategy meeting still plowing strong. Chrom wanted him back like how plants wanted water, parched and soon withering away in the absence under an onslaught of sun and pests and disease. Or like new shoots overstretching and desperate for light in a far-off distance, sickly pale green that toppled over, too weak to support their craving height, the light always just out of reach.

The stone hall they were walking through collapsed and folded away into a flat white, stretching on forever with no obstacles on the horizon.

“It has everything to do with our situation. Tell me about Cynthia,” Robin pleaded. “Has Sumia started taking her into the air?”

Chrom held his silence. It was and wasn’t unfair to be petty over Robin’s avoidance of the topic, but this was also a working of Chrom’s imagination so what was he remotely getting out of arguing with Robin? Robin fidgeted under Chrom’s stare, hands sliding in and out of his pockets, like they couldn’t decide what to do, how to hold up the silence. Finally, Chrom took pity on them both and started, “She has. Cynthia’s a natural as expected. In a few years’ time, she’ll be picking her own pegasus steed.”

* * *

During the final battle with Grima, Sumia was on air support in the thin whistling air instead of on the shuddering unstable dragon back. Astride with Cordelia, they hurled magic and lances down into the undead. Dodging arrows and retaliatory strikes gripped her attention. The harsh wind clawed tears out of her eyes and sunlight and shades of blue swathed her from all directions. The beams soaked her back with a cloak of warmth and down, down below, the sea glimmered, patiently waiting to swallow the fallen bodies that cracked into paste on impact.

Though she saw the effects, she was too far away to see the blow that killed Robin. She saw how it ate a hole into Chrom’s heart.

He raised their children with focused wonder, setting down pens to hoist babbling daughters into his lap as they told him about their day and discoveries in the fields surrounding the castle. When Cynthia finished a rambunctious tale about how she and Morgan stalked a great pack of wolves, each as large as a horse and with teeth as long has their hands, and stood their ground against the menacing onslaught with equal clever turns of treats and blades, Chrom smiled and laughed and pressed a kiss to her forehead and said, “What an amazing hero you are!” When Lucina gave her tutors the slip to chase after Chrom mounting his horse to embark on field inspections, he took her hand in his firm grip and promised to bring her along when she was older and finished her lessons with gentle reassurance.

Yes, he loved their daughters, and he loved Morgan with the same protective fervor. His could has been child.

Robin’s loss carved an ache into Sumia’s heart as well, so she always invited the younger woman to their table when she passed through Ylisstol on the way to new adventures. Over courses of lamb and haddock and delicate tarts, Sumia inquired into the annual competitions in Ferox’s arena and Morgan's still strong winning streak, what new tactics she learned and any interesting novels the playwrights lent her. After taking a sip of wine, Morgan would smile and pass on pamphlets of poetry and heavy scrolls of vellum for Sumia to taste the words as well. The tug at the corner of her lips and the pleased narrowing of her eyes perfectly mirrored her father.

After dinner, Chrom and Morgan would retreat into his study, nursing the remains of the bottle of wine. They talked until the candles burned halfway down and he couldn’t help gifting her with the paternalistic advice he learned from raising Lucina and Cynthia and tracking the older pair. Thankfully for all their dignity, Morgan always took his words with sincere gratitude. When she rode off to continue her journey the mornings after, Chrom lingered at the gates, silently staring off at where she disappeared into the horizon waiting for her return. And perhaps waiting for someone else as well.

* * *

They walked together through an unending field, golden with the drying stalks of grass and lavish with wildflowers that glinted like polished gems. Twists of color trampled underfoot sprang back up behind them, undeterred by the weight of their boots. Sunlight shone down with the clarity of midday, after the noon meal when the kitchen hands packed pitchers of ice and sweet juice for the children to drag out to the racetrack stands. Yet the sky, when Chrom glanced up, was the flat steel gray of winter.

“Picture it,” Robin said, smirking, finger held up, _shh, quiet, close your eyes, just think about it_.

In Valm, the mountains were kinder, older and more worn down by the ages and the rains brought up by the warm ocean current ramming against the western shore. Its people have learned to ride the slopes and survey the land and the rolling terrain was still stiffly steep enough to stall the less experienced. To the northwest, the waves carved out a sheer cliffside, where birds and the occasional wyvern made their nests. And for the most part, except its southern land border, nature curled around the kingdom in a protective embrace. Geography has protected their land in a way we pray currents and the waters will continue to power ours, Robin explained.

He admitted, “Ylisse doesn’t have that many natural harbors, but I’ve heard some arcanists and mages are trying to mechanize magic to perform feats beyond our current capabilities and limits. With a controllable, consistent stream of wind, we can go against the natural winds and sail with more flexibility. And there are tomes – rarer, yes – that can move earth. Maybe even carve out harbors. Even if we won’t haven’t a trade empire as impressive as Chon’sin and Plegia – and mind you, their wood supply is highly limited so I believe we _can_ overtake our desert neighbor – at least we can make it easier to trade within our borders.”

“As tantalizing as this is, I don’t think your ideas are quite in reach yet,” Chrom said.

Robin waved a dismissive hand and his foot kicked up a cloud of dandelion puff. “It will be soon enough. You have some free time in a few days, swing by the academies and workshops. See what they have to say. And don’t worry about the treasury, this is a project that can pay for itself.”

Three days later, Chrom does go to Ylisstol’s largest mage workshop, where Ricken was making a name for himself in developing the arts. Laurent’s there too, taking a rotation through its halls to further his latest research project. They listened to his borrowed proposal, retain enough clarity through the churning noises of thoughts rolling to tell him that a project at this magnitude would take years, then forgot about him in favor of lobbing ideas back and forth. An assistant was sent to retrieve a chalkboard and at that point Chrom saw himself out the workshop, leaving them be. If a proposal didn't land on his desk in a few months, he’d return for a check-in and didn't worry about the matter further.

* * *

“You’re taking this oddly calmly,” Robin observed.

Chrom huffed drily. “What’s the use in panicking. That’s what you’d say too, if you were here.”

Robin frowned and looked away from Chrom, to the lake having a crisis of faith in its own existence. Steam lapped at the damp rocks of the bank and occasionally the waters tried reasserting itself by sending a fish leaping and tossing into the thin air and falling back in with a silent splash. A heron stood woodenly and unmoving in the hazy distance, one leg raised, its neck in a perfect, aching curve. Chrom refilled Robin’s goblet with more wine, thick with the sweet headiness of half-remembered nostalgia. The golden red liquid slapped against the bottom of the metal curve with the roar of waves crashing against old piers in a storm. Robin’s head snapped back to Chrom, startled. “Oh, thank you.”

They drank in sips and watched wildflowers bloom and whither over meadows stretching into the distance as the sun and seasons raced through.

“I don’t…” Robin trailed off and refused to look at Chrom. “I didn’t want to be like this. This hazy half-state, waiting for you to let go. And you need to let go, Chrom, you need to.”

Chrom silently nodded.

Robin’s body rounded on him, eyes still anywhere but. “We aren’t helping each other like this. I can’t truly guide you while stuck in your dreams and my presence is only distracting you from your duties in reality. I’m not coming back.”

“It’s been years.” Chrom agreed. Frederick’s hair has started picking up strands of white. Basilio and Flavia can still decapitate men, but not as swiftly. “I’m not the only one who wasn’t letting go though. Tell me Robin, do you crave life?”

He faltered and set down the glass with a mechanical click. A roar of wings and squawking throats blotted out the sun as an endless flock of birds flew overhead. Hiding under the shriek of a hawk, Robin admitted, “Yes. I do. But I can’t come back. Suppose that’s why I’ve been badgering you for details. I miss it. I miss you when you’re not here.”

Chrom set down his own glass and took Robin’s face in his hands. Downy feathers rained down around him, until everything bled away into a soft cocoon.

“This is goodbye,” Robin said.

“It is. Next time we meet will be many, many years from now,” Chrom said and pressed a single kiss against Robin’s lips.

**Author's Note:**

> [desperately shoves as many of my FEA wips out the door before Three Houses even though I won’t have time to play that for like. a year.]


End file.
